


Playing the Odds

by Mums_the_Word, Treon



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Trust, gang crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treon/pseuds/Treon
Summary: Neal is sent undercover together with a fellow CI from the Gang Crime Division.  While their bosses bicker over who gets the glory, the CIs discover that when the chips are down, they only have each other
Comments: 14
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another joint creation by Mums_the_Word and me :-)
> 
> Check out our previous fic: "Bear with Us"  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/26388979

Neal sat by his desk, at the entrance to the  White Collar Division of the FBI, studiously pretending to work. It wasn’t that difficult – he stared intently at the screen before him while twirling a pen, and every few minutes made a random mark on a printout of bank transactions. Nobody ever asked questions. 

He’d overslept that morning, which led to him being an hour late to work. 

Recently he’d had a few run-ins with his boss, and he was not looking forward to having yet another one. The previous week, Peter had dressed down Neal in front of a room packed with FBI agents, saying he had not been attentive enough to the meeting. A few days earlier, Neal had checked his messages while on a stakeout a few too many times, and Peter had confiscated his phone.

Neal marked yet another row on his printout. 

Peter’s office looked empty, but Neal had no idea whether the dedicated FBI agent hadn’t arrived much earlier. Peter could also just as easily have looked up Neal's anklet data. For all Neal knew, Peter had a little alarm pop up whenever he crossed the bullpen’s threshold. Or one of his minions might have notified him when their office CI decided to stop by.

He could hear Peter’s voice as the office doors opened, and he pasted on a bright smile.

“Good morning, Peter!” 

His smile froze as he realized more people were coming in. The first one was Agent Ruiz, from the Gang Crime Division. 

Ruiz stared impassively at Neal and then turned to Peter. “You just let him sit here?”

Neal didn’t get Peter’s answer, as the agent was already half-way towards his office by then.

Following Ruiz was a young man. He was definitely not an FBI agent, with his prickly hair, and tattoo just peeking out from under his shirt. Something about him made  Neal suspect that he had done time. The stranger looked around, took in the bullpen and offices, glanced at Neal and then hurried off after the two other agents.

Neal’s smile disappeared as he looked at the three men going up the stairs. Hughes popped out of his office to join the little group in the meeting room. 

Something was up.

After a few minutes, when Neal figured it was safe to do so, he sidled up to Clinton and Diana’s desks. 

“Hey... what’s going on there?” he nodded with his head towards the ongoing meeting.

Clinton turned to follow Neal's question. “Must be a meeting,” he finally said.

Diana glanced at  Neal, her eyes gleaming. “Maybe they're thinking of loaning you to Ruiz.”

Neal managed a weak chuckle. “You guys are really funny; you should consider going professional.”

“We’ll know when we need to know,” Clinton said, as if that was good enough.

~~~~~~~~~~

Although it had been almost a year since Neal had joined the  White Collar team, courtesy of his deal with Peter Burke, their professional relationship continued to be a work in progress. The initial arrangement had been sort of nebulous, and not all the rules had been etched in stone like the Ten Commandments. In a nutshell, Neal was supposed to advise Peter on catching criminals, and the reason he hadn’t been returned to prison was that he had been successful in unmasking “The Dutchman.” Peter got the accolades, and Neal didn’t get the orange jumpsuit again, so it was a win/win for everybody. However, now a paroled felon had to keep his winning streak going if he wanted to remain in the real world. But Neal found that maintaining focus on boring scam artists instead of real artists was a complete snooze. Crooked hedge fund managers, loan sharks, or second-rate counterfeiters were hardly any challenge, so sometimes his attention strayed. And to be fair, sometimes Neal also strayed when he was working on his agenda to find Kate.

Peter Burke was no dummy, so he had to be well aware that Neal was distracted from time to time. Ergo, that’s when the leash got yanked to recenter a wayward CI. It was annoying, but Neal didn’t have any other options right now except having his life, or at least his every move, displayed on Peter’s phone or his laptop. But Neal had done more with less. 

Hopefully, today would prove to be more stimulating with the arrival of Agent Ruiz and company. That arrogant little Latino dealt with the worst of the worst in the form of Mob bosses and their handiwork. That certainly didn’t fall within White Collar’s bailiwick, so why was he here? Neal didn’t like being kept in the dark, and he couldn’t shake the vague worry that Diana Berrigan’s words had implanted in his brain. Peter Burke would never loan Neal out to another department like he was allowing a neighbor to borrow a tool from his workshop. Then the little gremlin in Neal’s brain popped up and reminded him that Agent Burke was ASAC in this office. He wasn’t the ultimate authority. He answered to others above his paygrade, starting with Reese Hughes and then higher and higher up the food chain. Government agencies, like the DOJ, loved their hierarchies, and the more layers the better. Sometimes they played politics over practicality, and sometimes vice versa. Neal wondered how this would all shake out.

When Peter walked out onto the conference room balcony and summoned his partner with that infamous two-fingered gesture, Neal hoped he was about to be clued into the mystery.

The three FBI agents were seated around the long conference table, along with the additional guy, whom Neal was yet to be introduced to. Nobody bothered to do so now, either.

Peter directed Neal to sit, then turned to the screen at the head of the table. Two pictures were projected on it.

Peter tapped them with his fist as he focused on his CI. “Jordan Kurlander,” he introduced the first one, “a lawyer, and this is his reputed partner, Vincent Pullara.”

“Soldier for the Genovese family,” Ruiz piped up.

Peter nodded. “Kurlander touts himself as “The Lottery Lawyer.” He recently instituted a pernicious campaign with billboards and signs on buses and cabs that make his face recognizable as the got-to guru if you’ve been fortunate enough to win some lottery either here or abroad. It’s all a façade because he and his partner are actually scamming those lottery winners. Kurlander claims to know the ins and outs of protecting the winnings, so he hooks the fish and then bilks them out of thousands. The money gets funneled to bogus companies and the Mob gets to do its money laundering. If any of Kurlander’s clients start getting curious about their portfolio’s lack of growth, Pullara pays them a visit and strongly insists that they get less curious. That’s enough to keep them in line.”

“So, how do I figure into this?” Neal asked, getting right to the point.

“This will be a joint op, Caffrey, by the White Collar and Gang Crime Divisions. We’re going to send you undercover to pose as a competing lawyer. Shane Barlow here,” Peter pointed to other young man, “will pose as your wing man.” Barlow was apparently Ruiz’s CI. “Kurlander and Pullara will think that you’re edging into their little scheme, so they’ll pay you a visit. At that time, you’ll try to get them to make a deal with you and then we can take them down.”

“Okay...” Neal looked at the three Federal agents around him. He shot a glance at Ruiz's CI, but it sounded like they expected Neal to be doing most of the work. “So White Collar is leading this op?”

Ruiz chortled at that. “No, Caffrey. This op is under my jurisdiction.”

“This is a joint op,” Peter insisted.

“Which I am leading,” Ruiz quickly interjected.

“Agents!” Hugh snapped. “Gang Crime has the inside scoop on this one. Ruiz will be point man."

~~~~~~~~~~

When the meeting broke up, Neal followed Peter right into his office. 

“You’re handing me over to Ruiz?”

Peter sat down and leaned back. “I wouldn't say that, exactly.”

“Then what would you say?”

Peter sighed. “You need to trust me on this, Neal. We need somebody on the inside, and we need somebody that neither Kurlander nor Pullara will suspect.”

“But why don’t we just leave this to Ruiz? Mob stuff falls neatly into his wheelhouse.” Neal wondered if this was Peter’s way of making him toe the line. 

But Peter was completely oblivious, his thoughts in a completely different direction. “Let me paint you a picture, Michelangelo—a down and dirty realistic picture,” Peter said forcefully to get Neal’s complete attention. “The White Collar division gets no respect from the other FBI offices. Around the watercoolers, they refer to us as the ‘White Bread’ division because they picture a bunch of milquetoasts in three-piece suits being nothing more than forensic accountants. We diligently follow the money trails that lead us to other milquetoasts, who’s only ‘weapon’ is maybe a pen or pencil. We arrest the jerks without any danger to ourselves, then a judge gives them a stern lecture and a slap on the wrist. Eventually they toddle off to a Club Fed for a few years and practice their golf swings.”

Neal frowned up at his handler. “How come I didn’t get sent off to a Federal country club? I could have improved my squash game.”

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” Peter asked drolly with his eyebrows raised.

“Right, I get it,” Neal smirked. “I was special.”

“But the White Collar division isn’t considered to be special in any way, shape, or form,” Peter continued his rant. “We’ve always been thought of as the red-headed stepchild in the Bureau, and don’t even get me started on the disdainful disregard for art crime.”

“What about art crime?” Neal prodded his handler because he really was curious. “That’s important stuff, and I ought to know.”

“Let’s not delve into that precarious statement,” Peter cautioned before he continued to spool out a much-needed factual history lesson. “The actual art crimes section of our division began years ago In Philadelphia, and it’s genesis was due to the tenacious pushing by an FBI agent named Bob Wittman. He had a background in art and antiques, and he wanted to pursue avenues to track down stolen items and restitute them to the rightful owners or museums throughout the world. It took him 16 years, but in 2013, he finally got what he wanted. Initially, he was almost a one-man show. The Bureau only allowed him to add two additional agents on his team, so how seriously do you think the Bureau took his efforts?”

Neal shrugged. “Sorta sounds like Agent John Douglas back in the 1970s, who pioneered criminal profiling. I’ll bet a lot of people still consider his science to be voodoo.”

“Yeah, but it’s been legitimatized over the years and the profilers get results,” Peter argued. “Hell, they even have a current television show airing based on the serial killers they’ve helped local authorities take down.”

“We get results, too,” Neal argued right back. “Your closure rates are in the 90s.”

Peter’s face took on a bulldog Winston Churchill’s expression. “Neal, this is our chance to play in the big leagues. We have to somehow prove ourselves to be better than Ruiz and his Elliot Ness crew. We have to outshine our competition.”

“Look, Buddy, I know there is some history between you and Ruiz that you’ve never shared,” Neal said softly.

“And I’m not going to share it now!” Peter answered sharply. “Just keep your eye on the prize so that we get the recognition that our White Collar team deserves. In other words, on your end, prove that you’re better than Ruiz’s CI and leave him in the dust.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’ll certainly try to make you proud,” Neal replied with a tentative smile. He could certainly be competitive when the situation required it. Just ask Matthew Keller!


	2. Chapter 2

By lunchtime, Ruiz called Peter. “So?” he asked, not bothering with any niceties. 

Peter suppressed a sigh. “So what?” 

“Your slick CI woke up and realized he’ll have to work this time around?” 

Peter didn’t like Ruiz’s tone. “Caffrey is an excellent asset, and we’re lucky to have him on this op.” 

“Well, in case it wasn’t clear, we don't need Caffrey, or White Collar for that matter. This was all Hughes’ idea.” 

“Really? What was your game plan?” Peter demanded to know. 

Ruiz snorted, but Peter didn’t let up. “Swagger into Kurlander’s office with a SWAT team and get him to tell you everything he knows?” 

“My game plan,” Ruiz retorted, “if you must know, was to get somebody I trust, and get _him_ to sidle up to Kurlander.” 

“Like that CI of yours?” 

“That's one option.” 

“Well, I don’t trust him. He seems shifty to me.” 

"He’s not as shifty as Caffrey.” 

“That’s-” 

“That’s the truth, Burke. You really trust Caffrey having access to all that money?” Ruiz didn’t let Peter finish. “I don’t want to be working a case and have an inside man steal the money out from under me.” 

Peter bit his tongue. He had enough experience with Neal that he wasn’t sure that he wanted to argue that point. “That’s how it goes with CIs, Ruiz.” 

Ruiz laughed. “That’s how it goes with Caffrey. But since I was boxed in on this, I’m gonna tell you how it’s going to be run. My CI is going to stick to your CI just to make sure he doesn’t get tempted.” 

“Two can play that game, Ruiz.” 

“Good. And when the time comes, and we get the evidence we need, Gang Crimes is going to take both Kurlander and Pullara down.” 

“That’s not what we agreed on.” 

“That’s what we’re agreeing now.” 

“Hughes will-” 

“I’m running this mission, Burke. It’s bad enough that I have to let White Collar play dress-me-up. This is my case, and I’m gonna collar those guys. You want to run to daddy and complain?” 

“Fine.” Peter didn’t really want to fight over this. “Just remember, trust is a two-way street, Ruiz.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“You want your collars, you can have them. But let's be clear – I don’t trust you. And I’m gonna be there every step of the way to make sure you don’t put Caffrey’s life in danger.” 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

It took a few weeks for the FBI to create a backstory for Neal and to provide an impressive backdrop for the undercover sting. “Neal Richards,” Attorney at Law, now had a corner office with a fantastic view of the New York skyline in Manhattan and wired for listening ears. His law degree from Harvard and his MBA from Wharton were prominently displayed on the wall amidst other enlarged photos of him hobnobbing with readily recognizable people. There were photoshopped pictures of him with a former New York mayor, a few Senators, some movie stars, and even one of him standing next to Jack Nicholson on a golf course. 

Gone were the vintage suits and fedoras. Instead, Neal now wore Savile Row tailored suits, Hermes ties, gold cufflinks, and a Rolex watch. He looked the picture of confident success as he sat across from one of Jordan Kurlander’s clients and dangled his fishing lure in the river. This was just the first person in a list that Ruiz’s CI had managed to ferret out via his connection to the Genovese Mob. Ultimately, Ruiz wanted the actual players in the Italian Mafia who were using Kurlander as a conduit to launder money. 

“Mr. McNulty, first let me congratulate you on your fortuitous win,” Neal smiled as he gazed at his guest who seemed a bit perplexed by this off-the-cuff invitation to meet with an obviously upscale attorney. 

“Yeah, it was a million to one shot when I bought that lottery ticket. My wife and I took our dream vacation to Ireland last year, and I thought, what the hell,” the recent winner said shyly as he fidgeted in his chair. 

“Well, Sir, the Irish Sweepstakes was actually worth more than a million,” Neal replied. “My sources have told me that you claimed many millions, enough to buy you a few castles and maybe even the Blarney Stone. Excuse me for being crass, but do you know your current net worth?” 

“Well, I don’t have much of a head for figures,” the winner acknowledged, “so I have somebody else take care of that kind of stuff. His name is Jordan Kurlander.” 

“Yes, I’m aware that you have engaged the services of a lawyer named Kurlander,” Neal frowned. “Seeking profession counsel was a wise move on your part. If I again may be so bold, how is he doing for you? Has Mr. Kurlander protected your assets and increased your portfolio?” 

“Yeah, sure,” was the man’s glib answer. “For the price of his services, he better be a wizard.” 

“So, his commissions are on the high side?” Neal asked. 

“I’m not sure what the going rate is, but I guess his are in line,” the man answered slowly. “And then there’s that other thing, too.” 

“Oh, are you referring to the monthly fee he charges for his financial advice?” Neal began baiting the hook. 

“Right, that fee. Mr. Kurlander says that’s a standard thing, and you gotta spend money to make money,” Neal’s mark seemed less sure now. 

“Exactly how much are you handing over every month for this financial wizard’s advice?” Neal asked softly. 

“Um, $20,000, I think.” 

“You think?” Neal pushed. 

“Well, that’s what it said on the contract I originally signed, but I don’t really understand the pages and pages of quarterly figures that he sends me from time to time,” the man admitted. 

“So, you don’t actually know where your funds are being invested, or if he has actually made you any money on any investments he transacted on your behalf?” 

Suddenly, the sweepstakes winner looked embarrassed and didn’t provide an answer. 

“Mr. McNulty,” Neal began softly, “it’s commendable that someone like yourself still epitomizes trust in his fellow man. But, unfortunately, not all human beings are of your caliber. Some despicable charlatans are greedy and they take advantage of people. To my way of thinking, that is just disgraceful and gives reputable attorneys a bad name.” 

“So, are you insinuating that my lawyer may be a shyster?” the lottery winner asked with a frown. 

“Of course not,” Neal said with a bit of a smile. “I’m just asking some questions to ascertain if you’re getting enough bang for your buck. An associate of mine seems to have had issues in the past with Mr. Kurlander, but I assure you that I’ve never met the man or have any preconceived ideas of his integrity.” 

“What did this associate of yours do about his concerns?” the now very interested mark asked the expected question to which Neal readily provided an answer. 

“Well, he turned his investments over to me. I’ll be frank, Sir. I refuse to charge usury rates for my financial services. I demand no ludicrous monthly fee and I only take a standard commission regulated by the industry. The percentage of that commission is closely overseen by FINRA and the Investments and Securities Act that goes back years, actually to 1934. It was a much-needed protection after the Crash of 1929.” 

“Do you do well for the people whose money you handle?’ was the next tentative question. 

“Please forgive me for being less than modest, but I do extremely well for my investors,” Neal replied. He then swept a hand to encompass the photos on the wall. “These are all happy clients of mine who now call me a friend.” 

“I know who most of them are,” McNulty murmured. “Who’s the guy on the left,” he asked as he pointed to a dark-haired man shaking hands with Neal in front of the ruins of the Greek Parthenon. 

Neal smiled. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Pfizer, the mega pharmaceutical giant. Well, that man is Albert Bourla, the CEO. He’s of Greek descent and was living in his home country until he relocated to New York in 2001. I took him on as a client several years ago, and I guess I’m not betraying any confidences because you can easily look up his net worth online. I like to think I was instrumental in growing it to just under $23 million.” 

Then, with just the right amount of reluctance, Neal glanced at his watch. “Mr. McNulty, I’m glad you stopped by for this little chat. Believe me, I wasn’t delivering a sales pitch. I was simply doing a favor for an associate, just as I stated earlier. Now I must leave to attend a conference outside the office, but feel free to make an appointment to return with a copy of your portfolio, if that is your wish. I would be only too happy to take a look at it along with the accountant in my firm. Peter Lassen is a math whiz.” 

“Maybe I’ll do that,” the now worried lottery winner mumbled. The gullible man was just the first in a trio of people in similar situations that Neal was going to try to poach away from Jordan Kurlander. If three hefty cash cows suddenly wanted to jump ship, that was more than enough to gain a shifty lawyer’s attention. 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

Neal bided his time and his only companion was Shane Barlow, who, as mandated by Ruiz, stuck to his cohort like glue. At the very beginning of the charade, each man was a bit leery of his new working partner. Neal found that spending time with Ruiz’s CI wasn’t all that bad, except for his habit of chewing Nicorette gum to dull his need for cigarettes. Neal had suggested they pass the time by playing chess, but Shane said that poker was his game. 

During a game of Five Card Stud, Shane asked, “So, what’s your story Caffrey? How did that Burke guy manage to get you under his thumb? I’ll bet it was insider trading. You walk the walk and talk the talk, if you know what I mean.” 

“Actually, it was bond forgery,” Neal admitted. “How about you? How did Ruiz grab you by the short hairs?” 

Shane gave a gusty sigh. “I was a pit boss up in a casino on the Atlantic City Boardwalk. It was connected—if you get my drift. The cops got me on some stupid narcotics charge which was bogus. The Feds actually planted some cocaine in my car and threatened me by saying I’d get the book thrown at me for being a dealer. I could avoid that rap by getting names in the Genovese organization, and that’s what I’ve been doing ever since. I’m a friggin’ mole for The Man.” 

Neal looked his new partner in the eye. “Listen, my friend, whatever we are, we’re in this together. We either have each other’s backs or we could end up with more to worry about than our handlers.” 

“Don’t worry, Caffrey I’ll do you a solid if you return the favor,” Shane agreed. 

It wasn’t long before this new alliance was put to the test. 


	3. Chapter 3

It took just under a week for Neal to have his sit-downs with the two other lottery winners. Each seemed naïve and clueless, so it wasn’t hard for Kurlander to take advantage of them financially. Neal cleverly sowed his seeds of mistrust and waited for them to grow and bear fruit.

At the start of business on Monday, Neal had some visitors he hadn’t been expecting. Two men swaggered in after rudely bypassing the FBI probie playing the dumb blond secretary in the anteroom. Shane, Ruiz’ CI, had just stepped out for a smoke and he actually passed the duo as they boldly entered Neal’s inner sanctum. 

Vincent Pullara looked swarthy and menacing accompanied by someone who was obvious muscle looming behind his shoulder. He glared at Neal and quickly got his attention by slapping some kind of box onto the mahogany desktop. The con artist quickly identified it as a signal jammer. “That guy who just left,” Neal’s interloper asked—"who was he?” 

“I beg your pardon!” Neal said in an affronted tone. “I don’t know you from Adam, and you suddenly stride in here like you own the place. Must I call security to have you removed?”

“I asked you a question, pal,” Pullara rumbled, “and when I ask something, I expect an answer.”

Neal suddenly looked stubborn as he crossed his arms and glared right back. “Just so you know, I don’t tolerate bullies.”

“Okay, Mr. GQ, you want answers? Well, here’s  _ what _ I am—I’m a type of security for someone you don’t want to piss off, if you get  my meaning .”

“Seriously?” Neal mocked. “I presume you’re talking about Jason Kurlander. Does he really have that kind of juice to hire thugs like you to intimidate me?” 

“You have no idea who you’re alienating. Now, I’m asking nicely. That dude who just left—what’s his name ‘cause he looks familiar? I never forget a guy’s ink.”

Neal raised one eyebrow. “You neglected to tell me your name;  instead, you offered just a vague reference to your occupation. So, I’m not going to tell you his name either, just his occupation. The gentleman you may have seen in passing is my  amanuensis . Too big of a word for you? Well, let me put it in a vernacular that people of your ilk might understand. He’s my flunky.”

Pullara continued to frown. “Look, buddy, let me give you a little heads up. Stop poking your nose into other people’s business interests. That will get others involved higher up the food chain. If you don’t play it smart, the next set of visitors may not be as pleasant as me.” 

After that ominous warning, Neal’s two gatecrashers left. Neal hoped Shane had finished his cancer stick and decided to go for a coffee far from the office.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Your former friends were here, asking questions,” Neal informed Shane, when he finally strolled back into the office.

Ruiz’s CI looked askance at Neal. “Who?”

“Vincent Pullara. Came by with some muscle and threatened me so I’ll back down. And he was asking about you.” Neal looked at Shane carefully. “He saw you just as you left. You didn’t see him?”

“I didn’t notice...” Shane answered weakly.

“Well,” Neal added, trying to shift the topic to steadier ground, “at least we know we’ve hooked our fish. Now we just need to reel them in.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When  Mozzie came into Neal’s place that evening, Neal was out on the balcony, looking out at the darkening skyline.

“How’s your lawyering going?”  Mozzie asked, as he looked through Neal’s wine stash, picking himself a nice bottle of Pinot Noir.

“We seem to have caused some uproar in the criminal underworld,” Neal answered, as he turned away from the view. “Shane should have been here by now. We agreed to discuss strategy.”

“Well, more for us, as they say,”  Mozzie answered breezily as he put two glasses on the table and went to find a corkscrew.

Neal tapped his fingers on the balustrade, and then walked inside to join  Mozzie .

“You’re putting in too much effort into this case,”  Mozzie handed Neal a glass of wine. “You’re barely around.”

“I need to keep up appearances.”

“You need to remember you’re not a federal agent,”  Mozzie muttered as he sat down and sipped his wine. 

Neal joined him by the table. "I’m fine, don't worry about me.”

“What about Ruiz’s CI?”

“What about him?”

“You trust him?”

“I think we’re working rather well together,” Neal answered. He put down his wine and glanced at his watch. “He should have been here by now.”

Mozzie sighed. “You sound like a mother hen.”

Neal glared at him, then put down his own wine and reached for his phone. He punched in Shane’s number, then waited while the phone rang. Nobody answered. He had called Shane five times already over the past couple of hours with no response.

Mozzie watched his friend carefully. “Have you considered that Barlow might be playing a double game? He works for the Italian Mafia, doesn’t he?”

“He did,” Neal finally answered.

“You realize that he’s risking his life working for the Feds.”

“I don’t think the Feds gave him much choice in the matter.”

“Seriously?”  Mozzie tried to spell it out. “What would you do if you were him? Caught between the Feds and the Mob.”

Neal mulled it over. “I’d probably find a third option.”

Mozzie was again thoughtful. “Let’s be honest, my friend, we could say the same thing about your situation. You know—the proverbial rock and a hard place. The Feds have removed your anklet for this little farce, so you do have a third choice as well.”

Neal snorted. “So, what are you suggesting, Moz? Should I decide to run only to have not one but two scary Dobermans nipping at my heels? I’m good at vanishing, but maybe not that good.”

Mozzie shrugged. “I was just pointing out the possibilities. So, if you’re committed to the Feds for the long haul, then what now?”

“Now I call Peter and share the joyous tidings that Ruiz’ CI is in the wind.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter, Neal, and Ruiz were hunkered down in the White Collar conference room.

“So, Ruiz, it looks like your guy took a powder,” Peter tried not to sneer.

“He knows that wasn’t an option,” the little Gang Unit agent retorted, looking more sullen than worried.

“Then my visitor yesterday connected the dots and Barlow got made,” Neal threw in his two cents.

“Or maybe you cut your own deal with the Mob and fingered him,” Ruiz said heatedly. “Are you playing both ends from the middle, Caffrey? You’re a slick son of a bitch so I wouldn’t put it past you!”

“Simmer down in here,” a gruff voice intoned. Reese Hughes had walked into the room and was frowning like a stern schoolmaster. “I heard about this latest development, but that doesn’t change anything. We keep everything in play.”

Peter immediately objected. “If Barlow talked of his own freewill or was encouraged to share information, then the Mob knows Neal is working for us. That puts his life in danger.” 

Hughes ignored Peter as he turned to Neal. “Do you still have some of Kurlander’s other clients lined up to meet with you?”

“Yeah, two have appointments for later this week,” Neal replied.

“It's too dangerous,” Peter insisted.

“This is my op, Burke," Ruiz interjected. “And I say it’s too important to stop. This is a monumentally big operation that some very influential people in the DOJ have sanctioned. You wanted to play with the big boys? Then you have to put up with big boy danger. Besides,” he added, “Caffrey here is good at improvising.”

Hughes raised a hand to quiet both agents. “We’ll continue the op, but-” he raised his voice a notch, overriding Peter’s objections, “but we’ll move those two appointments to a safer spot. Everybody onboard with that?”

“What about Shane?” Neal asked.

Hughes turned to look at him. “What about him?”

“If he got made, he might be in  trouble -”

“We don’t know where or why he disappeared,” Ruiz answered. “And if we move forces now, we’ll be telegraphing the Mob that something’s wrong.”

Hughes gave Neal little comfort. “We’ll keep our ears to the ground, Caffrey. Don’t worry. Once this op is over, we’ll find Barlow. Now, any other issues?”

Ruiz spoke up. “I’m not on board with Caffrey winging it all by his lonesome. I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him.”

Peter gnashed his teeth. “Your CI is the one who disappeared!” 

“Caffrey will not be on his own,” Hughes responded. “Peter, I’d like a word with you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A few minutes later, when Peter exited Hughes’ office, he glanced over at Neal's desk. His CI was not there. With a sigh, Peter returned to his office.

But half an hour later, Peter again glanced over to Neal’s desk. His CI had not returned. Peter could feel a churning in his gut, a sign he never ignored. 

He took out his phone from his jacket pocket and punched in Neal’s quick dial. From his vantage point, he could see the phone light-up on Neal's desk.

Caffrey’s anklet had been removed for the op. If Neal walked out, there was currently no way to trace him. Peter’s next call was to  Mozzie . 

“This is not a good time, Suit,” Neal’s friend whispered when he finally picked up. Peter could hear a violin in the background.

Peter didn't back down. “Do you know where Neal is?”

“Even if I would know where he was, you don’t seriously expect me to answer that, do you?”  Mozzie said, before he hung up.

~~~~~~~~~~

Once again, the FBI agents were called into the conference room. 

Ruiz couldn't hide his smile. “I told you Caffrey’s involved in this.”

Peter shook his head. “There’s no way Caffrey’s involved with the Mob.”

“Really?" Ruiz crowed. “So how do you explain his newest disappearing act?”

Peter didn’t have a good answer to that one.

“Or maybe this was your idea?” Ruiz contemplated the other agent carefully. “Maybe you were too concerned about your little pet?”

“Enough!” Hughes yelled, silencing both agents. “Peter, I want Caffrey located ASAP.”


	4. Chapter 4

Neal didn’t intend for anybody to locate him anytime soon. If he allowed Peter to get embroiled in his newly-hatched plan, that would compromise his handler’s role as a federal agent. If they were going to solve this problem, which was now two-fold, then it had to be done off the books. Peter had to keep his hands clean while Neal went rogue with the intention of finding and hopefully rescuing Shane Barlow, as well as completing the operation by taking down a faction of the Mob. But if Neal was being honest, rescuing another CI was more important than the Gangs Unit getting what they wanted.

Neal and Shane had shared a lot of personal information while they killed time in Neal’s Perry Mason office waiting for something to break. A criminal-to-criminal connection was certainly stronger than a CI-to-CI one. Doing jailtime was the clincher for the bonding, as well as talk of girlfriends, both past and present. 

“I’ve got a special lady in my life,” Shane had said with a smile as he pulled up a picture on his phone. “Her name is Brittany, and it seems like we’ve been together forever. I guess when you meet the right one, you just know it in your gut.”

Neal found himself looking at a bleached blonde striking a pose for the camera. She appeared to be in her early 30s, and seemed to favor a lot of eye make-up. She was smiling coquettishly in her stiletto heels, form-hugging yoga pants, and short crop top with sequins that barely covered her midriff, but which did little to hide the tattooed sleeves on both arms.

“Pretty lady,” Neal said softly. “You’re a lucky man.”

“You got that right!” Shane agreed. “She sticks around even when things get tough.  We actually met in high school down in Margate, New Jersey. Things were good for us. I eventually got a job in one of the Atlantic City casinos and she started working in a nail salon. We had plans, you know—we even moved in together and thought about a future. But then the Feds got their hooks into me and dragged me to New York. My little gal loves me so she followed and took a crappy apartment downtown so that she could be with me.” 

“Well, at least your lady stuck around. Mine took off while I was still in the joint,” Neal said with a shrug.

“Man, that sucks,” Shane commiserated, just as Neal thought he would.

“Yeah, well I guess the smart thing to do is just move on,” Neal kept the informative conversation going.

“Yeah, I hear you, and I’m proud to say my little honey is the smart one—maybe not book smart, but street smart,” Ruiz’s CI said proudly.

“How so?” Neal probed curiously.

“She took precautions,” Shane said smugly.

“Care to share? Maybe I’ll learn something about women,” Neal smiled charmingly. 

Shane Barlow stared at Neal for a long minute, then seemed to come to a conclusion. “Here’s the down and dirty,” he began his spiel. “That dude, Ruiz, and all his little federal merry men think I have connections that go high up in the Italian Mafia. They’re all deluding themselves. What I know is just stuff I’d overheard and had the presence of mind to record on my phone. I was just some menial flunky, so it was like I was part of the woodwork and the guys ignored me as I hustled drinks and club sandwiches for them.”

“What kind of stuff did you record?” Neal asked curiously.

Shane suddenly looked devious. “I managed to get names, dates, and deals all recorded, and then I made backups of everything. You’d be surprised how twisted this thing is. My intel could blow the whistle on a certain district attorney, a few judges, and even a city councilman who are all on the take. That would rock this city to its core.”

“So, I’m guessing that you didn’t come forward with this evidence and give it to Ruiz because you were saving it for a rainy day,” Neal astutely concluded.

“Exactly! When I told Brittany about it and she listened to the deals they were concocting, she thought it could be valuable—like a bargaining chip. We discussed it and decided we weren’t stupid enough to try to blackmail the Mob. We were just waiting for the right opportunity to play our trump card with the Feds. Our treasure trove is radioactive, so we could swap it for somewhere nice in  WitSec with a substantial little nest egg.”

“Sounds like the two of you have thought this through pretty thoroughly,” Neal said admiringly. “Kudos to you both for being so cunning. I just hope you watch your step very carefully because you’re playing with fire.”

“Brittany and I have that covered, as well. We have a contingency plan.”

“And that is?” Neal asked with raised eyebrows. When Shane hesitated, Neal pushed. “C’mon, man, you’ve come this far, so tell me the rest.”

“A life insurance policy!” Shane blurted out. “Brittany is my life insurance policy. If I get in a bind with the Mob, I’ll tell them exactly what I squirreled away. That should put a crimp in their plans to murder me because they can’t be sure it’s not a ticking time bomb that could go off if I don’t check in with my girlfriend regularly. I’ll make that crystal clear because I’m neither a dummy nor a martyr for Ruiz’s cause.”

“Doesn’t that put Brittany in danger?”

“No, she knows the drill. If I don’t come home to her or call, she rabbits and disappears.”

“Well, I hope the two of you never have to implement Plan B,” Neal answered truthfully.

~~~~~~~~~~

That past conversation kept playing over and over in Neal’s mind as he relaxed back on a comfortable sofa at Thursday— Mozzie’s second favorite safe house. It was a converted basement beneath two stores in a strip mall—one was a Christian book store and the other a mattress store with a “Going Out of Business” banner tacked across the front window. Thursday’s location was across the river from New York in nearby Newark, New Jersey. 

“I really don’t think  Barlow’s no-show performance is intentional, Moz,” Neal told his friend. “Most likely that telltale tattoo was the smoking gun. Everybody has limits and pain thresholds, and with the right persuasive tactics, Shane could have spilled his guts about everything and everybody. If he did finally cave, then his body may be in some landfill by now.” Neal had done his homework and was aware the Mob owned the franchise for waste management and recycling in New York as well as in Jersey. 

“So, I guess you want yours truly to track down his girlfriend before it’s too late for the lady,”  Mozzie guessed. “If they didn’t leave together, then Ruiz’s CI is in some deep doodoo, and so is this Brittany chick.”

“If they didn’t leave together, and she didn’t take the hint to make herself scarce, then it’s a catastrophic ending for both of them,” Neal said softly.

Mozzie heaved a theatrical sigh. “Well, since you have to keep your head down, then I guess this is my cue to go onstage and play my part.”

“You’re a prince, Moz,” Neal said gratefully.

Moz was about to leave, but then stopped, turning back to Neal. “I don’t suppose you have a picture of this lady...?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Armed with an amazing likeness prepared by Neal,  Mozzie set out to find  Brittany. He had a first name, a sketch, and a description: a street-smart, tattooed manicurist who was wanted by the Mob. Easy peasy.

He started his search in the nail salons downtown, looking his befuddled best. He was looking for his niece - Brittany from Atlantic City. He just got to town, and he knew she was working somewhere around here, but forgot the exact name of the place. It didn’t take him long to hone in on the right establishment, but the girls there told him she hadn’t come to work that day. He was directed to her digs,  a 5th floor walkup that she shared with her boyfriend . 

Huffing and puffing,  Mozzie climbed up to her tiny little apartment. After knocking a few perfunctory knocks, just to be on the polite side, he let himself in. As expected, the place had been hurriedly vacated. Drawers were left open, after their contents were dumped into a bag. A few low-cut dresses still hung in the closet. 

Mozzie now checked her neighbors. He knocked on a few doors, and told the story of his long-lost niece, who seemed to have disappeared. Most people just closed the door in his face, but a young man down the hall was quite happy to talk about his neighbor. She’d moved in just recently with a boyfriend, and they mostly kept to themselves. He saw her leaving in a hurry that morning, suitcase in tow. No, he did not know where she was going. She just said she was hurrying to a cab downstairs. Was there a cab station in the neighborhood? Sure, just a couple of blocks away.

Mozzie’s next stop was the cab station – a hundred-dollar bill and Neal’s sketch garnered him a talk with the cabbie who drove Brittany earlier that morning. He hoped the young lady wasn’t in trouble, and was quite satisfied with  Mozzie’s answer that he had nothing to worry about. 

It took him less than three hours to locate the run-away blonde, only now she wasn’t blonde anymore, at least  Mozzie didn’t think so. His search had brought him to a small beauty salon in Midtown, and when he gazed myopically in the window, he thought he detected the lady in question sitting in a stylist’s chair getting a radical makeover. Her long pale hair had been cut into a chestnut bob that framed her face and ended at her chin. However, the arms that peaked out from under the short cape still displayed those telltale sleeves of connected tattoos.  Mozzie only caught a quick glimpse, so he needed to be sure.

Mustering up a bit of swagger, he pushed through the door of the establishment and approached the receptionist at the desk. The young woman was going for the Goth look—black from her buzzed hair all the way down to her stiletto boots.  Mozzie couldn’t begin to count the piercings adorning her nose, eyebrows, and earlobes.

“I’d like to get a mani-pedi,” he said boldly.

The intimidating receptionist cocked her head and stifled a laugh. “Dude, this is a  _ hair _ salon not a spa, and I don’t think you need our services seeing as how we’d have nothing to work with.”

Mozzie looked around him in confusion as all heads turned in his direction. He got a good look at the customer who was trying to mask her identity and was convinced it was Brittany.

“Oh, my bad,” he muttered meekly as he beat a hasty retreat. He lingered outside for a time until his quarry finally emerged with a duffle bag and a large purse slung over her shoulder. As she began walking towards the nearby subway, Mozzie fell in step beside her.

“Brittany, I like the new look—much less brassy. It flatters your face,” he offered his opinion. “But you really should think about wearing a sweatshirt to cover up the ink.”

The young woman shrank back and began fumbling in her handbag. “I’ve got pepper spray in here, and if you think the Mob can off me in broad daylight on a Manhattan street, then I’m not going down easy!”

Mozzie held up his hands and stepped back a pace. “Seriously, lady, do I really look like a hitman to you?”

Brittany gazed at her new stalker. “Well, if you’re not part of the Mob, then my next guess would be a pervert!” she snapped. “Why are you following me?”

The little bald man huffed out a sigh and mumbled something under his breath.

“What did you just say?” the feisty lady demanded.

“I said,  _ ‘no good deed goes unpunished,’ _ and that’s exactly what’s going on here,”  Mozzie explained. “I’ve been sent to help you, not hurt you. I know about your honey’s abduction and the hot potato that you possess, which you think will save him. But that’s only a temporary stopgap measure.”

“How do you know all that?” Brittany remained leery.

“Because your boyfriend told my friend. I’m assuming you know about Neal Caffrey, alias Neal Richards? They shared a lot while working the sting to take down the Lottery Lawyer, Jordan Kurlander. Can I also assume that you’ve heard from Shane recently and he gave you the signal to go underground?”

Brittany seemed to deflate. “He called me this morning. After we spoke, I turned off my phone, threw some bare essentials into this duffel, and tried to change my appearance. But I don’t know where to go next.”

“I can help with that dire dilemma,” Mozzie said kindly. “Now, take the battery out of your phone as an added precaution and let’s skedaddle across the river. I have a place in beautiful scenic Newark where you’ll be safe.”

“Why would you want to help me?” Brittany was again skeptical of  Mozzie’s good intentions. “Do you, or whoever you work for, want what I have so you can use it for your own gain?”

Mozzie sighed dramatically. “Neal Caffrey is my associate, and let me make it clear that I work  _ with _ him not  _ for _ him. And let me assure you that he has certain standards. He’s a former felon who would never take advantage of someone like your boyfriend. Besides, Neal’s a romantic and believes in true love, so if you really do love Mr. Barlow, then a little cooperation on your end may save his life.”

“How does Neal Caffrey think he can outwit people like the Italian Mafia,” Brittany snorted. “Shane said that their muscle is somebody named Vince Pullara, and he’s a really scary psychopath.”

“Neal is working on a plan and you’ll just have to trust him and hear him out,” Mozzie insisted. “Now, do we do this or not?”

After a slight hesitation, Brittany answered. “I guess I don’t have a lot of options.”

“Wise choice,”  Mozzie smiled as he led her to the subway that would take them downtown to the ferries.


	5. Chapter 5

Neal was fast asleep when the sound of the door swinging open woke him up. Dreams of Peter, yelling at him for running away yet again, quickly dissipated. He bolted upright, just as  Mozzie brought in their new guest. He quickly ran a hand through his hair, straightening it out, as he came face to face with Shane’s girlfriend.

“Brittany,”  Mozzie announced, “this is Neal. Neal, Brittany.” Having made the introductions, he left the two to hash out details.

Shane’s girlfriend looked nervously about. “Your ‘associate’ said you have a plan?”

Neal smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. “Come, let’s sit and discuss options.”

Brittany didn’t move. 

“Okay.” Neal nodded. “I understand you don’t trust anybody right now. But Shane is in serious trouble, and you’re the only one who can help him.”

“You work for the FBI, don’t you?” Brittany finally blurted. 

“Partially. But this is off the books,” Neal was able to answer truthfully. “The FBI doesn’t know where or why Shane disappeared, and they don’t intend to put any effort into finding out.” 

“And you care?” Brittany shook her head. 

Mozzie appeared with an ornate tray, bearing cookies and mugs of steaming tea. He put the tray down on a little table, and gestured both Neal and Brittany to join him. “It's going to get cold,” he scolded.

Brittany hesitated, but then joined  Mozzie , who handed her a mug of tea. She sat down on the same sofa Neal had used before, holding her duffel bag close against her. Mozzie sat down on a chair across from her.

Neal joined them both, moving an armchair closer. “Shane and I were both working undercover, and we both had each other’s backs. I’m sure that if anything happened to me, Shane wouldn’t leave me hanging.”

He wasn’t actually sure about that, but it didn’t hurt to hype their relationship at this point. 

“I can help you, get you both out of here to start a new life somewhere else, far away from the Mob and the FBI. You can start over, anywhere you want to.”

Brittany took one last gulp of tea before she put her mug back on the table. “And how are you going to do that?”

“I don’t know if Shane told you, but I was jailed for forgery. I can prepare all the documents you’ll need to disappear without a trace.”

“If you can get us out of here,” Brittany demanded, “why are you still here?”

Neal smiled. “Because I don’t want to leave, yet.”

That earned him a stern glance from  Mozzie .

“But, first,” Neal continued, “we need to save Shane.”

“We’ll need to organize a transfer,”  Mozzie added his two cents. 

“The recordings for Shane?” Brittany asked. “I have them hidden away in a safe place, but what happens if they manage to get to them before they release him?”

“We’ve done this before.” Neal and Moz exchanged a quick look, before Neal continued explaining. “Besides, we don't intend to give them anything.”

“No,” Brittany seemed to deflate. “If they find out we’re trying to trick them, they’ll kill Shane. Then they’ll come after me.”

“Brittany,” Neal said as he looked into her eyes. “I promise you. You’ll both be out of here before they can figure out what happened.”

Brittany still didn’t look very convinced. “Won’t they come after you, then?”

Neal’s smile widened. “They can try, but we’re going to use those recordings to bring them down first.”

Brittany's gaze shifted between Neal and Mozzie, then back to Neal. This was her life on the line here, her life with Shane. She slowly nodded. “Okay,” she said, but then added, “I'll give you those recordings, only if you bring Shane out safe and sound. Once we’re both safe, they’re all yours.” 

“Deal!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal’s next stop was the lottery lawyer himself. The con man knew the FBI had eyes on Kurlander, but Neal wasn’t a successful sneak thief for nothing. He used a basement access and interior fire stairs to get to his quarry without being detected. Kurlander was in his inner office, busy hashing out business with his Mob handler/partner, when Neal burst through the door with Kurlander’s secretary just a step behind him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kurlander,” she said, “I told him you’re busy. He said-”

Neal grinned, interrupting. “I said I thought it’s about time we meet.”

“And you are...?” The  lawyer asked.

Pullara was able to fill in the blanks. “This is the guy who’s been trying to steal off our customers.”

“Quite successfully, if I may say so myself,” Neal preened.

“You’ve got quite the balls strutting in here,” Pullara growled. 

Neal could see him reaching for his weapon, and hurried on with his spiel. "Look, I realize we started off on the wrong foot-”

“You think?” Kurlander  interjected

“-But,” Neal plowed on, “there’s no reason we can’t work together.”

“Oh, really? I was doing quite well without you.”

“True. But you could do much better  _ with _ me. I can convince anybody of anything.”

Kurlander considered that. “You haven’t convinced me yet.”

Neal smiled at that. “We’ve just started.”

Kurlander nodded at his secretary. “Hold my meetings.”

He waited for her to disappear behind a door, before continuing. “So, you’re... Richards?”

Neal nodded. “Neal Richards.” He sat down, and the two other men followed his lead.

“And you think stealing my customers is the way to start off a partnership?”

“It’s a way to get your attention, and it worked. In fact, I think it may have worked too well. If I’m not mistaken, my office manager was kidnapped. If that was your way of telling me to back down-”

“Your ‘office manager’,” Pullara spit out the words, “is our business. I told you I don’t forget a guy’s ink.”

“I see,” Neal responded. “Is he  still.. around?”

“That’s none of your business, either,” Pullara responded.

Neal cleared his throat. “Because, you know, he told me once that he had something on you and some of your other associates.” 

“He did, uh?”

“I suppose you already have whatever that was,” Neal answered. “But, if not – I might be able to help.”

The mobster walked straight into Neal’s trap. “How would you do that?” 

“He doesn’t know we’re partners-”

“We’re not,” Kurlander added, but Pullara  shushed him.

“As a show of goodwill, if I can meet him, I can get him to spill the beans about whatever he's holding. He trusts me.”

Pullara laughed. “You'd just leave him hanging like that?”

“I have my own business to take care of,” Neal answered. “And as you said, he’s your business.”

Pullara stood up, towering over Neal, who hurried to get up as well. “You’ve got a deal. Wait for me to text you tomorrow.” 

The two shook hands. Neal used the opportunity to drop a tracker in Pullara’s jacket pocket.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hidden chip in Pullara’s pocket proved very useful because the Mob’s flunky left Kurlander hanging and scurried right to the head of the food chain. His destination was the corporate office of an enterprise called Metropolitan Waste Management, one of the Genovese family’s cash cows. Years ago, through a lot of political graft and intimidation tactics, the Italian Mafia had acquired the lucrative business of collecting, transporting, processing, disposing, and recycling of New York’s City’s refuse. They established their facilities across the Hudson in New Jersey to avoid the exorbitant municipal taxes in the Big Apple. The company routinely ferried large scows and barges of trash across the Hudson from lower Manhattan to Jersey City. Neal found it quite ironic that what denizens labeled the “Garden State” should more aptly be designated as New York’s “Garbage State.” 

Neal utilized Google Earth to get a bird’s eye view of the operation, which was sprawled across acres and acres of open land. There were numerous buildings connected by a maze of ribbon-like roads that crisscrossed rail lines with idling flatbed cars. An army of dump trucks were in the process of being filled by heavy-duty forklifts and front loaders before making the journey to nearby landfills. Most likely, when the stationery railroad cars on the property reached capacity, they would head for points south for recycling or disposal in other states. Apparently, some of the destruction of waste occurred on site because a large concrete structure with a smoke stack was belching out a cloud of grey haze into the atmosphere. It had to be a mammoth industrial incinerator, making Neal speculate that the regional representatives from the EPA had been paid to look the other way. 

Mozzie was peering over Neal’s shoulder. “Where’s the recycling center?” 

Neal shrugged. “Not sure, Moz. This place is like its own little village. If it’s here, it’s tiny.”

Mozzie looked miffed. “What is wrong with people?” he began a rant. “Recycling is important. We have to be green and reduce our carbon footprint to save the planet! Do you know how many useful products can be made out of plastic, glass, and old car tires!”

“Calm down, Moz,” Neal pleaded. “Do you really think an organization who kills people like annoying  gnats cares about that? Genovese and his cohorts may care about leaving an incriminating fingerprint but not a carbon footprint.”

Mozzie had to get in the last word. “Well, at least they should consider composting!”

Neal grimaced. “I’ll bet that over the years there’s been a lot of composting in the form of dead bodies. The landfill would be the perfect place to hide the Mob’s hits. I don’t think many people would be bold or foolish enough to look for a missing person in that mountain of putrid mess.”

“Do you think this facility may be where they’ve stashed your buddy? It would be like one-stop shopping—torture and then disposal right beyond your doorstep?”  Mozzie said smugly.

“That would be my guess,” Neal mused thoughtfully. “We’re going to need a closer look. Got anything you’d like to recycle?”

“I’ll be back soon,”  Mozzie promised as he zipped out the door. Two hours later, he returned lugging a heavy boxy piece of electronic equipment in the form of an ancient Sony Betamax circa mid-1970s.

“Are you really sure you want to part with this piece of archaic history?” Neal teased.

“No worries,” the little hoarder answered breezily. “I’ve still got three more of these babies in my storage locker. So, let’s take ourselves recycling to get a firsthand lay of the land.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Neal and his wingman took Mozzie’s old, restored Buick Skylark out for a fieldtrip later that day. The vintage vehicle displayed the appropriate Jersey license plate nestled beneath its impressive front grill that gave the impression that the car was baring its teeth. The two sleuths were waved though the initial gatehouse after receiving directions for the recycling center. Apparently, that genre was subdivided into various other little rabbit holes in a convoluted warren. There were individual drop off sites for aluminum cans, plastic bottles, paper, and lastly, electronics. 

Neal and Mozzie made it a point to get lost several times, meandering down one-way access paths and then laboriously manhandling the huge car around when they came to a dead end. The comical process continued as they haphazardly paid visits to various dump sites, mammoth Quonset hut-like structures containing marinading garbage, and, lastly, that impressive incinerator. They actually did finally leave the Betamax at the appropriate drop site where Mozzie found himself drooling over a first-generation IBM computer and a mimeograph machine. 

“We’re dropping off, not acquiring new junk,” Neal whispered. 

“It’s not junk, and I don’t have a …” Mozzie started to say longingly before Neal shushed him. “No flea market shopping today, Moz!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Mozzie sulked. “So, what’s your take? Do you think this may be where they’ve stashed your pal, Shane?” 

“Well, if Shane is still alive and being held here, we can cross off most of the less desirable places on the campus,” Neal said thoughtfully. “I’d like to get into that warehouse-type building adjacent to what is probably the central office space. That would be my choice to keep someone on ice for a while. Handy and close. So, I say we come back tonight after dark and do some recon.” 

Mozzie snorted. “I love how you say, ‘we,’ with such a blasé air, like you’re using the English monarchy’s version of the royal ‘we.’ If so, then let me just say that _‘we’_ are not amused.” 

“You’re right, Moz,” Neal said almost contritely. “I shouldn’t assume you’d want to risk your neck to help Peter and his Fed friends take down a Mafioso.” 

“Is that what this is?” Mozzie feigned surprised. “And here I thought we were trying to help a young couple out of a very big jam.” 

“Well, that too,” Neal shrugged. 

‘I’m in, mon frère, for the long haul. Let’s do this!” 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

The army of two hunkered down nearby in Mozzie’s “Old Betsy” until it got late and work ceased in the waste management plant. All the worker bees left in an orderly processional of their personal vehicles until, eventually, the scene looked like a ghost town. Only that suspicious warehouse had any light coming from its high windows, so that became ground zero for the determined rescuers. They used the inky darkness to creep closer until they found a locked steel door which Neal quickly opened with ease. As they slithered inside, they gave their eyes time to acclimate to the dimness enveloping the cavernous room filled with crates and shelving. When they gazed up, they spied a man sitting on a folding chair on a catwalk smoking a cigarette. 

“Stranger danger,” Mozzie breathed in Neal’s ear. 

“Yeah, I get that, Moz. He’s here for a reason and that’s probably to stand guard over something or somebody. Let’s take stock of what’s in these crates before we go searching for Shane.” 

The pair started quietly lifting the lids on containers that held an assortment of scrap metal parts, shredded pieces of rubber, and pulverized shards of glass. Finally, at the end of one row, they found something that definitely wasn’t recyclable in a different kind of crate. Actually, it was more like a steel box secured with a heavy chain and a padlock. Neal again used his skills to gain access, and suddenly they were staring at rectangular white blocks of a substance individually protected in shrink wrap. 

“I think there’s a different kind of garbage leaving this center from time to time,” Neal whispered. 

“Yeah, I think you’re right, but being DEA drones isn’t the purpose of our mission. Do you still think Shane is here?” Mozzie asked. 

“Maybe we should split up to cover more ground to find out,” his partner suggested. 

Neal hadn’t gone but a few feet as he maneuvered his way through what was like a labyrinth when someone suddenly had a meaty arm slung around his neck from behind. Whoever it was seemed huge and muscular because he was lifting the con man off the floor without breaking a sweat. Neal dug his fingers into the man’s chokehold and frantically writhed, but without air or blood flowing to his brain, the only things he saw were tiny pinpoints of light that were fading fast. Just when he didn’t have the strength to struggle anymore, the death grip around his neck loosened and something heavy fell to the floor behind him. 

Gasping for much needed oxygen, Neal gazed up at his savior. Mozzie was holding a small aerosol bottle in his hand and looking extremely pleased with his handiwork. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” he smirked as he held up his weapon of choice. “My own special blend of nitrous gas and another secret ingredient that may be illegal and thus must remain unidentified. Lucky for you, it works in seconds after just one squirt.” 

“You’re my hero, Moz,” Neal said sincerely. 

Mozzie’s embarrassed dip of his head was interrupted when the guard up on the catwalk was leaning over the railing and peering below. “Yo, Gino, what’s with all the noise? You stomping on rats again?” 

“You stay here, Moz, and give me time to scale that ladder to the catwalk. Then create some kind of a diversion,” Neal hurriedly whispered as he disappeared from view. 

“One Mississippi, two Mississippi,” Mozzie began chanting to himself nervously until he thought he had given Neal enough time to get into place. Then the steadfast bald man boldly called out from the shadows, “Hey, paisano, your mother just sent me a selfie. I really like the mustache she’s sporting on her upper lip. You must be one proud son!” 

The upstairs guard was suddenly charging towards the steps with a gun in his hand. He stopped in confusion when he felt a tap on his shoulder. As he spun around, Neal neatly coldcocked him, causing him to pirouette almost gracefully before landing hard on the metal grating. 

“Moz, up here!” Neal quickly waved his hand. “There’s a door that probably leads into another room.” 

By the time Mozzie had scampered up the ladder, Neal had the door propped open and was bending over Shane Barlow, who was slouched down on the floor while being securely handcuffed to a ring in the wall. The chained prisoner looked a little banged up, but he was breathing and lucid. 

“C’mon, pal, we’re going to get you out of here,” Neal hurriedly whispered as he worked at the manacles with his lock picks. “A very worried lady is waiting for you back at my place, so let’s get a move on.” 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

The next morning, Neal strolled into the White Collar bullpen. He barely took two steps past the door, when he heard his name shouted. Peter was standing by the railing, giving him the two-finger point. “Caffrey, get up here, now!” 

Neal dropped his fedora on his desk, squared his shoulders, and went to face the music. 

Peter was leaning against his desk. When his young charge entered his office, he held up the monitoring anklet. “Put this on.” 

Neal accepted the anklet and put his foot up on Peter’s guest chair to snap it in place. 

Peter waited until Neal finished and had straightened up. “Do you realize how much trouble you’re in?” 

Neal turned to look at the bullpen, and saw almost everybody staring up to watch the show. With a quick shake of his head, he turned back to Peter. “Trouble?” 

“You’re this close to being sent back to jail,” Peter put his thumb and forefinger together. “You do not get to disappear on me.” 

Neal decided not to stretch this any further. He took out a small flash drive from his jacket pocket, and put it on Peter’s desk. “I think you’ll find here everything you need to put our ‘lottery lawyer’ in jail-” 

Peter, about to continue his tirade, immediately reached for the drive. 

“-As well as evidence of quite a few mob operations over the past few years.” 

Neal made himself comfortable in Peter’s guest chair. “Oh,” he added, “and you’ll find some familiar faces on there. I think you’ve got at least one judge you should be investigating for bribery and racketeering." 

“Where did you get this?” Peter asked, suspicious as always. 

“I suppose it’s better you don’t ask.” 

“I’m asking,” Peter insisted. 

Neal looked up at his FBI handler. “This is what I do, right? You wanted me to go undercover and get the goods on Kurlander and Pullara. So, I did.” 

“No...” Peter found an evidence bag and dropped the little flash drive in it. “No, you don’t get to sit there and tell me you’ve disappeared in order to solve our case.” 

“But I did.” 

Peter ground his teeth. 

“This is a win for White Collar,” Neal reminded him. 

Peter knew Neal was right. “We’re not done,” he warned his charge. 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

“Why is he here?” Ruiz asked after entering the conference room and spotting Neal. “I thought he’d be in jail by now.” 

“Ruiz...” Hughes stepped in behind him. “Take a seat.” He then turned to Neal. “You pull that trick again, Caffrey, I’ll drive you to Sing Sing myself.” 

“Yes, Sir,” Neal was properly contrite. 

Hughes sat down at the head of the conference table. “You called us with some breaking news, Peter?” 

“Yes.” Peter held up the small portable drive he’d received from Neal. “This contains actual recorded evidence against the top dons of the Genovese family." 

He then inserted the apparatus into his laptop and started playing a clip from the drive. The film was slightly skewed to the side, butall the agents recognized Pullara, who appeared on the screen. He was meeting with a bunch of Mob big-shots. 

“This is our Mob guy,” Peter explained, “meeting with his bosses to discuss Kurlander’s business. There’s hours of video on this drive. The lab said it would take them days to review all the information.” 

“Where is this from?” Hughes asked. 

Before the White Collar crew could answer, Ruiz piped up. “It’s from Barlow. Isn’t that right, Caffrey?” 

Neal cleared his throat. “Shane recorded it; he was hoping it would be helpful in the future, and-” 

“And how did you get it?" Ruiz wanted to know. “Did you steal it from him?” 

“He gave it to me,” Neal could honestly say. “Things didn’t turn out like he planned, and now he’s..” Neal paused. “Well, things didn’t turn out like he’d planned.” 

“Where is he?” 

Neal sighed. “Well, Agent Ruiz, you know how the Mob treats snitches. I heard some bodies are never found.” 

After a moment of stony silence, Ruiz turned to Hughes. “Organized Crime solved this case.” 

“Wait a sec.” Peter raised his hand. “Barlow knew he had enough to get Kurlander, but he held on to this info. We could have saved ourselves the whole op. It would seem that your CI, Ruiz, was trying to play both ends from the middle.” 

Hughes rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This is now White Collar’s case, Agent Ruiz. Peter, I want the info from the drive downloaded and parsed ASAP.” 

Peter took great pleasure in watching a red-faced Ruiz sputter and swear before Hughes took it upon himself to personally usher the unhappy man out the door. A handler also found himself inordinately pleased with his wayward CI, who had somehow managed to pull off the impossible and gain the much-needed respect for the White Collar Unit. Peter would be having a little talk with a rogue cowboy who had chosen to go it alone without backup. Peter saw himself as the sheriff in town, and Neal was supposed to be part of his posse, not an independent gunslinger. 

~~~~~~~~~~ 

After Hughes ensured Ruiz got on the elevator, he returned to his office, stopping at the entrance to the White Collar Division for a little chat with the department's CI. 

“Is Barlow dead?” 

“I can’t say,” Neal answered, his voice noncommittal. 

“Can’t or won’t?” Hughes pressed again. 

Neal hesitated for a beat. “I take the fifth.” 

Hughes laughed. He made to go, but then turned back. “Just between you and me... good job, Caffrey.” 

Neal grinned. “Thank you, Sir.” 


End file.
